


The Road Home

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete.  One shot.  Aramis centred.  It's Reveillon de Noel, a time for family, friends and heartwarming celebrations in France.  Finding himself surrounded by the frozen dispositions of his surly comrades, Aramis surprises himself when he inadvertently brings them all back together.  Entry for the December 'Fete des Mousquetaires' competition on fanfiction.net.  This month's theme was, 'Frozen'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Home

**The Road Home**

_by_ _SpaceCowboy_

 

* * *

 

_With stillness, there is to be movement._

_With discord, there will be harmony._

_And with cold, there is warmth._

   

Night was rolling in on the French countryside, but with the sun still waning just above the horizon the sky remained smudged in pinkish hues tinged with blue. The road being travelled by the four weary musketeers was covered in a thick layer of soft snow nearly a foot deep, and many times deeper on the forest floor surrounding them.  The snowflakes falling to the ground, slow and coasting on the still air, were big and fat and glimmering in the early twilight. Unfortunately, the four men riding slowly through the snow covered forest, had been travelling for hours surrounded by such beauty without much more than a few, unfriendly words shared between them.  All but one, never taking notice of the peaceful serenity bestowed upon them this Noel’s Eve.

As Aramis looked around, he could feel the tension thick around them.  The atmosphere amongst them lately had been nothing short of frigid and he had been trying, unsuccessfully, all day to uplift their moods. He had even prepared a celebratory lunch to mark Reveillon, the night before Christmas, in order to bring them together, but no one had wanted to stop- all too eager to get home, and in Aramis’ growing opinion, away from each other to wallow in their own miserable moods.       

Noel had always been a special time for Aramis, and he was sure it was for d’Artagnan as well, but he couldn’t understand why the young Gascon was finding it so hard to find that joy today.  Yes, it was another Noel without his father, but brothers who could easily fill the gap and never let him feel alone surrounded him. 

For Porthos, Aramis knew this time of year could be troublesome, so he knew his work would be cut out for him there.  Having grown up in the Court, Aramis could only surmise the bitterness surrounding this indulgent holiday.   For the poor and homeless to watch the well to dos live even more boisterously and flamboyant, was rather more like punishment than cause for celebration.  

As for Athos, typically this time of year he tended to be much like himself as any other time of year. But under that quiet, almost always annoyed look, Aramis was always able to see a glimmer of peace during the holiday season.  Surely, before the whole business with Milady had started, Athos had shared in many grand holiday experiences, and as like most people this time of season, it was hard not to look back upon them.  Aramis just wished his brother could find it in himself to do so this Noel’s Eve.   It was too beautiful to do otherwise.

So when the larger musketeer, the one leading the tired and weary pack, finally broke the abnormal and uncomfortable silence, Aramis felt a spark of hope ignite in his chest.

“I’m cold,” stated Porthos.

His hope instantly fizzled and he hung his head.  “No you’re not,” replied Aramis, unable to contain his disappointment as he listened to yet another complaint issued from one of his brothers.

Porthos turned back and looked at him pointedly.  “What did you just say?”

Aramis swallowed his chagrin and smiled at his friend.  “You’re not cold.  You’re just miserable,” he placated.

His large friend grumbled under his breath, and then drove his horse forward without saying another word.

“The great and wise Aramis has spoken.  Again,” droned Athos. 

The marksman glanced to his right where Athos was riding beside him. “And when the rest of civilized society comes to the same conclusion, the world will be a much happier place,” he replied. He had meant for his response to be lighthearted, but he could tell by his brother’s stiffening shoulders that it hadn’t been taken that way. 

A moment later, Athos pulled ahead, evidently trying to distance himself from Aramis just as Porthos had done moments ago.

The marksman’s heart fell, but he refused to show any indication that he was negatively affected by his brother’s actions.  He had to remain vigilant in his war against the dour moods that had settled over their group.  It had been a tiresome mission that had them now travelling the road home, and it pained Aramis to see his brothers distance themselves from each other- which they had actually, truth be told, been doing since long before the mission had started.

It had been a hard month filled with relentless and tedious missions keeping them no further than an arms length away from each other.  In short, they were all over worked, and having been forced into each other’s company more times in the past month than the previous months combined, it was no wonder they were getting on each other’s nerves. And with them all knowing each other almost as well as they knew themselves, it was easy enough to push the right buttons or say the exact thing needed to set his brother off. 

Most people would assume time apart would be the best remedy for what ailed them, but Aramis knew better.  He knew they were at their best when functioning as a unit, not separated.  Together they could heal.

His plight was further substantiated as the Gascon to his left began grumbling under his breath and fidgeting on his horse. 

“Just leave it alone,” sighed Aramis, unsuccessfully hiding his waning patience.   

“It’s broken,” snapped d’Artagnan.  “Have you any idea what it’s like to ride with a broken saddle?”

Aramis let out an exacerbated breath before replying, “No, absolutely no idea. I’m only older than you, and have been riding with the musketeers longer than you, and not once have I ever had to ride with a broken stirrup.  It’s strange actually.  The experts are quite amazed how I’ve managed to live my entire, horse riding life, without a singular incident involving something wrong with my saddle.”

D’Artagnan glared in response before spurring his horse away from the marksman.

Aramis shamefully hung his head.  He’d been trying to keep the peace and instill a little joy- something of which should be in abundance this time of year, but instead, no longer able to contain his own irritation, he’d only succeeded in dousing the Gascon’s already ill-tempered mood.

With tomorrow being Noel, Aramis had hoped for a return to their natural harmony, even going so far as hoping they would join him at midnight mass back in Paris. But based on their sour moods- even his own he was now noticing, he was beginning to think that was not going to happen.  As he saw it, he was going to have to _give_ them back their good moods, for there certainly wasn’t any evidence of them finding them on their own accord.

Aramis drew in a cleansing breath to reinvigorate himself.  The sky seemed endless and particularly enchanting this Noel’s Eve, and he decided he wasn’t going to allow his cheeriness to be dampened any further by the swordsman’s bitterness, the Gascon’s irritability or Porthos’ icy disposition any longer.  He looked heavenward as he let out his breath, and a smile wide enough to accentuate the crinkles entrenched in the corners of his eyes appeared on his lips.

The sky, now dotted with the occasional twinkling light, was like a blanket protecting the Earth and keeping it safe.  It appeared so close to the Earth this time of year, Aramis felt like he could actually reach out and touch the stars themselves.   He smiled up at them, thinking back to a particular star that had once guided others in times of need and used it as inspiration to warm his heart, despite being surrounded by the frozen dispositions of his brothers. 

“I’m good where I am,” the marksman heard Porthos yell back from his sentry position.

“I want to take over,” stated Athos, his voice stern.

“You’re needs are not my concern right now,” was Porthos’ reply.

Having missed the beginning of the argument, Aramis sighed in defeat once again, dropped his head and pulled up on the reins of his horse, bringing it to a sudden stop. The others did likewise when they noticed his abrupt halt and looked back at him over their shoulders- their expressions just shy of annoyance.

“What?” asked Athos.

Aramis registered the tone in his brother’s voice and it grated on his last nerve. It took nearly all his self-control to contain his frustration and disappointment. “It’s Noel,” he said wearily, waving around at the landscape.  “Look around. Have you ever seen a prettier snowfall? There’s peace and serenity all around us, and it seems like each of you is intent on disturbing it.”

“Yeah, it _is_ Noel,” Porthos spat back. “And if we don’t get a move on, we’re gonna miss the feast at the garrison.”

Aramis watched as his closest friend started moving forward again, not once taking the opportunity to take in either the words he’d just spoken nor the scenery.

“I agree with Porthos,” stated d’Artagnan, also urging his horse onward.

“Oh now you agree with me,” grumbled Porthos, turning back from his forward position to glare at the Gascon.  “Where was that last night when…”

“Don’t even start!” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“The both of you, just shut up,” Athos ground out between gritted teeth.

As his brothers continued to argue, Aramis allowed for a large gap to come between them. He wanted to enjoy what the day had brought; a clear night, snow and a mild temperature, and he couldn’t stand to have his mood ambushed any further by such dourness. The day was too beautiful to ignore, and the season too joyous to let slip by unobserved.

The air was still, and as Aramis looked around, he was unable to contain his appreciation for the landscape- despite the rancid moods of his brothers.  He took in the beauty of the winter’s night as he held out a leather-gloved hand and let the flakes land softly upon it. He studied their intricate designs and marveled at how Mother Nature could be so kind one day, but then unleash a fury of wind and rain and blistering cold the next.

Carrying on in silence, the stillness of the snow covered forest enhancing the solitude of the early evening, Aramis let himself remain behind his group of brothers as they continued to bicker and badger each other into what he could only assume were confrontations meant to unleash their pent up frustrations with each other.  The marksman shook his head when he heard unpleasant words, in an unpleasant tone, issued from d’Artagnan. It seemed his brothers were doing everything in their power to sabotage what should have been a peaceful, pleasant ride home.  He didn’t care anymore what they were arguing about, he was going to enjoy the holiday despite them.

He looked around again, to help raise his spirits, and became so caught up in the majesty of the view, he had no time to react to the heavy, dull thump off to his side as a large contingency of snow fell from over-burdened branches.

His horse did though, and it reared back before Aramis could register what was happening.

With a dull thump, and a quick escape of breath, Aramis landed on his back with an emphasis to his left side in the soft snow.  His horse stood above him looking down, eyes blinking and chewing on his mouthpiece without any regard for what he had just done.  Aramis smiled up at it’s content face and bright eyes, and let out a long breath.

In the short time it took for his brothers to register what had happened, and to dismount and rush to his side, Aramis had plenty of time to reflect on his situation.  There was a sharp pain between his shoulder blades, but he knew it was just a strain and in time would dissipate.  Besides, the gentle, fat snowflakes landing on his face were greatly easing that pain by bringing a smile to his lips.  Aside from that, there was a dull ache in his left hip that made bending his knee upward slow and stiff.  But again, nothing broken and the sight of the evergreens, their branches laden with fresh white snow, instilled in him an overpowering sense of peace that nearly made all his pain seem inconsequential. The soft snow beneath him had saved him from any further injuries, and as he lay there embraced by it’s frosty nature, he didn’t actually feel cold, but rather, a warmness was spreading through him as if Mother Nature was blanketing him with her own personal down.

Aramis felt like he could remain like that forever, serene and content, and when his brother’s faces appeared above him he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of fresh, cool night air and tried to hold on to the moment a little longer before the chiding began.

“Fool,” he heard Athos huff, as he felt the swordsman’s hands running over his body in search of injuries.

“That’s what you get for getting caught up in the scenery.”  That was said by Porthos, and Aramis could almost see the eye roll that had accompanied the remark.

“Perhaps you should take the time to enjoy it more,” murmured Aramis, his smile holding steadfast. “It was worth every bump and bruise.” Aramis opened his eyes and raised an arm to be helped to his feet.  “But I’m fine none the less,” he said, as he was hoisted upward.

“Are you sure?” asked d’Artagnan.

Aramis absently massaged the back of his left hip as he stretched his back.  “Of course,” he replied.  “Just a simple fall.”

With a remorseful, and yet insightful sigh, Porthos shook his head.  “It’s your hip again, isn’t it?” he asked, nodding toward his brother’s left side.

Aramis contemplated his answer before responding with a submissive nod.

“Can you ride?” asked Athos, his voice tolerably courteous.

Aramis stretched, leaning as far back as he could to test for any other aches or kinks. “Of course,” he replied, then he took a step forward and his left leg collapsed under him.  It was only by the grace of his brother’s quick reflexes that he didn’t land on the ground.

“We make camp,” was all Aramis heard as he tried to regain his footing. 

It was Athos who had made the statement, so therefore it was really more of an order, and it didn’t take long for the grumblings to start.

“Great,” sighed Porthos. “Now we’ll definitely miss Le Reveillon.”

“Way to show support,” snipped d’Artagnan.  “I’d think your brother’s well being would be more important than a big feast.”

“Don’t start with me,” replied Porthos, his mere irritation turning aggressive in a heart beat.

“I’m cold. I’m hungry,” mocked d’Artagnan.

Porthos was about to charge at the young Gascon, but Athos’ exacting words stopped the argument from progressing.  “Set camp,” the swordsman ordered, wrapping an arm around the marksman to support him better. “And unsaddle the horses. We’re here for the night and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

A shelter was constructed just beyond the tree line with foliage dense branches and relatively sturdy logs.  The ground within the shelter was cleared and blankets were strewn about to provide some comfort from the cold terrain.  Their saddles were arranged in a semi-circle, and as Porthos sat on his, head down and fidgeting with his gloves, Aramis sprawled out beside him using his own saddle as a back support.

Athos was quietly building a fire at the mouth of the shelter when a short while later the Gascon entered, burden with many bags. 

D’Artagnan started dropping them just inside the shelter.  “What do you have in here?” he asked, holding up Aramis’ bag to indicate to whom he was referring.  “It feels like it’s packed with rocks.”

Aramis stiffened and held up a cautionary hand.  “Be careful with it,” he said. 

It appeared, for a brief moment, that d’Artagnan was going to ignore the plea and simply drop the bag, but he placed it down gently and instead, shook his head with prominent displeasure.

Aramis relaxed with marked relief, but it was short lived.  His friend beside him had started talking, and his voice sounded ashamed at best.

“You know I didn’t mean…” Porthos words trailed off as he turned toward him.

“Already forgotten, old friend,” stated Aramis, having already chalked up the large musketeers earlier reaction to frustration rather than lack of concern.

Porthos moved closer to his friend so that they were touching.  “Sorry, is all.”

Aramis leaned into his leg and waved a hand dismissively.  “You’re apology is unneeded, but appreciated none the less.”

“How you doing, anyway? It’s holding up alright?” continued Porthos.

Conscious of the man’s reference, Aramis looked down at his left hip.  Not that long ago he’d been injured rather severely and his left hip had bared the brunt of it, but it had healed nicely since and hadn’t given him any cause for concern in quite awhile.  “I’m sure a little rest will do me some good,” he replied.  “It’s quite sore, and riding probably would have aggravated it immensely, but by morning I should be fine.”

Aramis watched his friend nod, ostensibly accepting the marksman’s diagnosis. He could sense relief in Porthos’, and Aramis was glad he hadn’t upset the large man too much by falling off his horse. He had been trying all day to help his brothers find peace, not create further anxiety or malcontent.

With night now fully upon them, and the snow filled clouds having drifted away to reveal a starry sky that shed light on their darkened faces, Athos and d’Artagnan joined them, and sat themselves down on their saddles.  A long, heavy silence filled the air, despite how breathtaking the view was outside.  A full moon hung low in the sky, shining enough light down to make the fresh, white snow glisten even in the darkness.  The snow had stopped, but not after leaving everything covered in a pristine blanket of fluffy white power that remained untouched or soiled by human trampling. There was no wind either, meaning the fire would remain strong and the evening temperature accommodating.

It was blissful, awe inspiring, and Aramis almost felt like waxing poetic, but the tension amongst his brothers had not subsided and he could feel it thick and oppressive within the confines of their shelter.   It was as if they were all frozen in their own worlds, not only unable to break free of their angry restraints, but also unwilling.  At one point, d’Artagnan had pulled some bread from one of his bags to share with them all, but even after sharing their thanks, they had all eaten in silence. 

Not yet willing to give up on restoring the natural harmony of the group, and knowing there was one thing he could do to strengthen his resolve, Aramis reached into his doublet and pulled out the book he kept safely tucked inside.  He’d hoped the others would join him in his provisional midnight mass, knowing how much it meant to him, but he wasn’t holding his breath. At the most though, he hoped they would keep their peace until he was finished.

His head down, and his fingers tracing the words he murmured aloud, Aramis let his heart fill with joy as he read the appropriate passages.   The inspiring content uplifted his mood, and he let himself be taken over by the comforting nature of the words.  With the fire blazing before him, his brothers surrounding him and the beautiful scenery around him, Aramis became lost in the world he shared with his benevolent god.  When he was finished, and he had closed his book, he looked up to see his brothers each staring off into the distance, still not paying any regard to one another, and it made Aramis’ heart fall.

“Amen,” he heard someone whisper, and immediately his eyes shot toward Athos who had said the quite words.

Aramis smiled gently at him, but did not impose further.

A moment later, two other amen joined Athos’, and Aramis let the silence that accompanied them linger awhile before asking d’Artagnan to pass him his saddlebag.

“I don’t suppose anyone would care for some oysters and wine?” asked the marksman, pulling such items from his bag.

Three faces stared at him in surprise.

When Aramis passed Athos a bottle of wine, and d’Artagnan a carefully wrapped jar filled with the traditional Parisian Noel delight, Porthos’ face became alight with anticipatory glee.

“I can’t believe you even _found_ oysters in that town,” remarked the large musketeer, as he took a few small, squishy sea urchins from the offered jar and popped them into his mouth

“And this is expensive wine,” commented Athos, looking the bottle over before uncorking it for consumption.

“Nothing too good for my brothers this Reveillon,” stated Aramis, partaking in the other bottle of wine he had procured from his bag before imparting it to the Gascon.

“I haven’t had these in as long as I can remember,” Athos said wistfully.

Aramis turned and watched as the swordsman examined the oysters in his hand, a heartening smile playing on both their lips. 

“They were tradition every year in my household,” offered d’Artagnan, his gaze having drifted to the view just outside their shelter.  “When we could get them, of course,” he finished with a smile as he suddenly turned back to his brothers. 

“Can’t say they were popular in the Court,” stated Porthos, but there was a smile on his face that diminished any sense of remorse he might have been feeling. “But I always remember wanting to taste them as a kid.”

“And have you?” asked Athos, before taking another long swig of the vintage wine. “Tasted oysters?”

“One of the only memories I have of my mother and me was of the first time I did,” smiled Porthos, taking on a nostalgic countenance.  “We went out one Noel Eve during Le Reveillon just to see if we could find some. You know, like maybe someone had dropped a few on their way home from the market or something. But that night, a family actually came out of their house when they saw us the street and gave us a few to taste.” Porthos paused as he took one of the oysters and placed it gently on his tongue, obviously savoring every ounce of it. “These taste just as good as they did that night.”

Aramis reveled in the ease he’d been able to give to his friend by simply, and inadvertently, igniting the warm memory within him. 

“Did you go back the next year?” asked d’Artagnan.

Porthos shook his head. “Naw, had totally forgotten about it by then.  I was a year older and wanted to spend more time with friends than my mother,” he stated with a fond laugh.

“I remember the first Noel I felt the same,” added Athos, looking down between his feet with a small smile.  “It was quite the thrashing I received from my mother’s hairbrush when I didn’t appear for Reveillon that year.”

Silence followed the swordsman’s nostalgic admission that was cut short by several quiet laughs.

“Sorry,” chuckled Aramis, trying to hide his amusement behind a hand covering his mouth. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, please, keep going.”

Athos seemed near hurt by the reaction of his brothers, but appeared as if he was going to continue despite them, until d’Artagnan’s sudden, and loud burst of laughter interrupted him. 

Athos looked at them all in surprise.  “Why is this so funny?” he inquired, when there was a break between the chuckles that had spread amongst his brothers.

“I think it’s the image it conjured in my mind,” snickered Porthos, as he precariously tipped sideways on his saddle.

Aramis spat out the wine he’d just poured into his mouth and quickly grabbed his friend’s leg to counterbalance his slow descent.  Then, trying to suppress the laugh Porthos’ commotion had elevated within him, he passed the bottle to d’Artagnan and tried to contain himself.  “Did you run and hide under a table, or find a nice broom closet to ensconce yourself?” he asked, trying not to choke on the wine still sliding down his throat.

“Neither,” replied Athos, his demeanor as stoic as ever.  “I was too old for such things.  I was raised by a very strict family, you see.  Choosing debauchery with friends over a lavish dinner with them didn’t even cross my mind till I was near old enough to call myself a man.”

The swordsman’s aloofness was shattered when another bout of laughter from his brothers caused him to recognize the absurdness of his story, and his countenance suddenly morphed into congenial acceptance, if not even a small self-deprecating laugh.  

The laughter continued until Aramis threw his head back with a sigh, absently massaging his left hip. “Stop.  Please,” he begged.  “If my face is not aching from the laughter, my hip is surely paying the price.”

A hand belonging to Porthos gripped his shoulder, helping Aramis to settle. 

The marksman nodded up at his friend and patted his hand, noting with an astute smile that the temperature within the shelter had drastically warmed. It was a tangible difference, and one that Aramis let wash over him.  He didn’t dare mention the change aloud, for fear of shattering what had been accomplished, so he reached back into his saddlebag without saying a word.

“Have you been hiding this all day?” asked d’Artagnan, as he watched Aramis pull another carefully wrapped package from his bag. 

“Le Reveillon has certain customs that must be adhered to,” replied the marksman. “Unfortunately I was remiss in obtaining pat de fois gras, but I was able to procure a few slices of buche de Nol.” 

“A man after my own heart,” stated Porthos, patting the center of his chest in a dramatic fashion as he stared at the Christmas cake. 

Wine, good food, his brother’s no longer bickering, was enough to make Aramis feel as if everything was right in the world once again.  He settled himself lower against his saddle, took another long drink of the wine and let his head loll to the side as he watched them all enjoying themselves. He reflected upon how they had missed lunch, and was now grateful they had.  For the sharing of the meal seemed much more poignant now, and could have possibly failed to achieve the same reaction earlier as it had this glorious, star and snow filled night.

He let his eyes wander past them and out over the fire into the starry night, and let his mind drift lazily, and perhaps a little drunkenly, off to sleep.

The next morning found him still laid out on his blanket while his brothers were already up and packing their gear.  Rubbing his eyes, and slowly sitting up, Aramis was instantly assaulted by the bright morning sun glaring off the white snow that coated everything in sight. He smiled as he let his eyes adjust, and reached over to grab his hat to help stifle the glare. Then he tucked his legs under him and cautiously pushed himself up to his feet.  Behind him, he could hear his brothers talking amicably, saddling the horses and commenting on the beautiful day, so he gathered his gear and started packing without disturbing them. 

When he came out from under the shelter, three warm smiles greeted him.  Nodding a good morning to each of them in turn, he made his way to his horse and slung his saddle over it’s back.  When he bent down to fasten the girth, he sensed someone next to him.  It was d’Artagnan, and when Aramis slowly stood back up again, it was to come face to face with the Gascon who was looking at him curiously.  

“What?” asked Aramis.

“Thought you might be a little sore this morning,” remarked d’Artagnan, eyeing him suspiciously. “You know, with your hip and all. I thought you might need some help tacking up.”

Aramis smiled and patted his horse absently.  “Oh,” he replied. Then he stretched, making sure to extend his back and twist at his waist to test his muscles. “Well, would you look at that. Nearly forgot all about that,” he remarked, suppressing his wince as his hip stiffened.

D’Artagnan held his gaze on the marksman a moment longer, but it did not carry malice or anger. “Yes, would you look at that,” he mocked, crossing his arms over his chest with a questioning expression.

Having glanced over his shoulder for a brief moment, d’Artagnan turned back to him, placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  “Thank you.”

Aramis blinked back at the Gascon.  “For what?”

D’Artagnan raised his brows and pointed to the rest of their group.  “Credit where credit is due, my friend.  Or, you know, Christmas miracle and all that,” he said with a wink. 

Understanding dawned on Aramis as he noticed his other brothers postures were relaxed and content as they looked around seemingly enjoying their surroundings and sharing it with the other.  

Astonished that the Gascon believed this his doing, but not wanting to disturb the well intended, but misguided assumption, he patted the hand still resting on his shoulder. “You are most welcome,” he replied. Then he watched with an honored smile as d’Artagnan joined the others.  A moment later, Aramis mounted his own horse and took his place by their sides. They rode on toward Paris as a group, no longer stagnated, enjoying each other’s company with their hearts no longer frozen by their own willfully surly moods. 

Now if only Aramis could get his hip to stop aching, than that would have made everything perfect.

 

**_~ Finis  ~_ **

 

**_Author’s Note_ ** _\- This is an entry for the December ‘Fete des Mousquetaires’ competition, themed, ‘Frozen’.  This competition is held each month with a different theme and is very friendly and lots of fun if you enjoy writing.  I suggest checking out the competition itself, or the stories entered, by visiting the Musketeer Forum, Fete des Mousquestaires, on fanfiction.net for details._


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